Count
by Toasty
Summary: He once told her how many kisses they had shared- two thousand four hundred and sixty-seven- and she was shocked. She didn’t even know when their first kiss had been. (He knew that too- March seventh.) NLLL


Yes, it's true, The Government Stole My Toad.  (I don't own anything, so don't be daft.)

_Count_

         He remembers the first time he saw her.  There was no meaning to it, no affection, no real curiosity.  He might have been interested if he wasn't so hungry, or if he could have seen her wide eyes from beneath the hat, or if the hat had called out "Gryffindor" instead of "Ravenclaw."  None of those happened though, and he dismissed the girl like he did everybody who hadn't been sorted into his house.

         He remembers the second time he saw her too.  He didn't quite understand why the third-year sat in the Great Hall, long after lunch and long before supper, simply staring at the ceiling, and he didn't want to ask.

         He remembers the third time too.  He can also recall the fourth, fifth, and sixth times he saw her.  She was in Hogsmeade the seventh; the Muggle Studies classroom the eighth; the hallway outside the Charms room the ninth…

         He keeps track of them all now.  He sometimes feels that there's no room left in his mind for memories of anybody but her, and he doesn't think that is such a bad thing after all.

~*~

         She can't recall the first time she saw him, though she knows it wasn't on the Hogwarts Express like Ginny will always think.  She's lost track of the number of times she's looked up, only to have his warm brown eyes focused on her and her alone.

         She knows she should take it more seriously, especially if she's supposed to love him, like she knows she is.  She should focus her entire self on him and him alone, finding out his quirks and idiosyncrasies.  She should know how he likes his tea, what he puts on his ice cream, and if he's ever eaten wild blackberries under the hot summer sun.

         She doesn't keep track of things like he does.  He once told her how many kisses they had shared- two thousand four hundred and sixty-seven- and she was shocked.  She didn't even know when their first kiss had been.  (He knew that too- March seventh- and he knew where too- inside greenhouse four, right behind a table of mandrake clippings.)  She once asked him if she should focus more, and he had the nerve to laugh.

         "No," he sighed, brushing back a strand of pale hair, "I wouldn't ever want you to change."  He kissed her again, and then pulled away, smiling.  "Two thousand four hundred and sixty-eight."

~*~

         He buys her gifts he knows she'll love; socks in bright colors, earrings charmed to glow bright red and green, a hair clip he knew she'd wear as a pin.  He looks all over for them, because they can't be found in normal stores.  His first trip into Knockturn Alley was for her, and he never was sure how he made it out alive.

         She writes him poems that don't rhyme and he never really understands them, but keeps them in a box in the bottom of his trunk.  They're written in all colors of ink, and each one has a different handwriting.  He asked her one time why each was different.

         "I've found I'm not comfortable with my handwriting."  She shrugged and handed him another poem, this one in purple ink with a large looping script.  "I have to try every one until I find one I am comfortable with."  He pointed out her socks, charmed to fade into different colors and inquired if she was comfortable with anything.  Her hazy smile disappeared and a real one replaced it.  "I'm comfortable with you."

~*~

         He wonders if he's the luckiest man alive, or if a joke is being played on him.  She doesn't act like she could fall in love.  She doesn't look like she'd be one to want the fairy tale.  He told her so one day.

         "Looks can be deceiving."  They were outside, though the wind was blowing hard.  Her skirts, three wispy things wrapped around her waist, whipped around her legs in varying shades of red, blue, and yellow.  Her hair flew around her face, though she seemed not to notice it as they walked past the lake.  "I want to live happily ever after."

         He looked away from the castle and towards her, memorizing how she looked in the afternoon sun and adding it to his tally.  "What would make it end like that?"

         She only shrugged, and then let out a light laugh.  "Does anybody really know?"  She let go of his hand and twirled in front of him, causing her skirts to fly up and flash her bare knees at him.  Suddenly she fell onto the hard ground.  "Maybe seeing a Crumple Horned Snorkack would cause me to live happily ever after.  Maybe having a Nargle bite Harry Potter on the ear would.  Maybe getting married and having so many kids it would make the Weasleys blush would let me live happily ever after."

~*~

         He smiles as he looks down at the oddest girl he's ever known.  He offers his hand and she takes it, the two of them making their way back to the heated castle.  He sometimes wonders what would happen if they fell out of love and he knows she never considers it.  She sometimes screams and cries, but she knows he'll never tell anybody.

         His Gran doesn't really like her, and it doesn't bother him too much.  His Uncle Algie jokes that he'd marry her if he ever got the chance, but the younger man knows there wouldn't be a chance.  He takes her to see his parents every Christmas and he's amazed at how his mother lights up to see the scrawny witch in mismatched clothes.  In return, she takes him to her mother's grave in the spring, and though she never cries, he holds her anyway.

         He sometimes thinks about asking her to marry him, albeit not for a few years yet.  She sometimes thinks about doing the same thing.  

~*~

         Neither does, and the years fly by.

~*~

         He knows everything about her.  He knows about the freckle on the back of her knee, the ticklish spot inside her wrist, and the heart shaped scar on the bottom of her left foot.  He spends his days in gardens and greenhouses, growing plants and looking for cures no one has seen.  He digs through the soil and thinks of her.

         She still doesn't pay much attention to anything around her.  She sometimes has trouble remembering his middle name, and it's rare for her to know what day it is.

As different as they are, they always have the same favorite days.

         "Neville!"  She runs into the greenhouses screaming, clothes disheveled and hair flying behind her, unbrushed and knotted.  He catches her, covering the back of her dress in soil.  She laughs and pulls away, handing him the magazine.  "He published it!  Daddy published it!"

         Of course he has, he wants to say instead of just turning to the page she's flagged.  She writes fantastic things and he's always amazed.  She writes about real things, which people don't expect, especially from The Quibbler.  She uses words he doesn't know the meaning of, but he's talked to Hermione and they are real.

         He hands her the magazine and she hugs him again.  As quickly as she rushes in she rushes out, and he's gotten used to it.  He goes back to his plants with a smile on his face. 

~*~

         She remembers the whole thing.  How he looked, when his voice wavered, and the hope in his eyes.  She can still hear the birds singing in the background- blue jays and cardinals whistling together.  She knows the minute it happened, and she knows everything about it.  It's ingrained in her memory like nothing ever has been before.

         Which is quite good because he can't remember it.  He remembers planning it, and gathering the nerve to do it, and walking up to do it, but nothing more until her arms were wrapped around him and she was crying "Yes!" into his ear.

         She's quite sure the wedding itself will be a daze for her, like everything else in her life has been.  He's positive he won't be able to forget a single thing.  He'll know the designer of her dress, and he'll remember to thank Lavender for the discount.  He won't forget to send out invitations and nothing will be left to the last minute.

Of course she'll be herself.  She wants to pick out the china pattern, "Because girls," she tells him, "are supposed to do those things."  It's a dark navy design set on a pale yellow back and most people think it's ugly, but he thinks she's beautiful.

~*~

         She's still got that dreamy expression on her face, even as she repeats the vows.  He takes it all in stride.  They're told to kiss and it's a chaste one.  Before she can turn away he smiles.

         "Three hundred, ninety-two thousand, eight hundred and seventy-two."

~*~

         She loves it that he still counts.

_End._

_._


End file.
